Yesterday Murph the Wonder Dog was bitten at the dog park. After bringing him home and attempting to clean the wound, I realized he was going to need stitches. For the rest of the evening he sat with me or the hubby, slouched over with his head hung low. He knows when he is sick or injured and reminds me very much of the Pitiful Pearl that is my husband when the common cold hits him. This must be an inherent male trait, in humans and canines, to milk the sickly situation for all that its worth. And it works every time, they each pull my heart strings when they are down for the count.

I actually took the day off work today so that I could take Murph to the vet, and stay home with him, watching to be sure he doesn't pull his stitches out. As I sit here pushed uncomfortably into the corner of the couch, with Murph laying at my side, I'm balancing my laptop atop my big belly, and realizing that I will be bringing another male into this family in the coming weeks.

Just call me Florence Nightingale, my nursing specialty is an affliction known as the Melancholy Male. I am bound to have exaggerated ailments to tend to for the rest of my life.